


Find Me

by just_another_exhausted_fangirl



Series: Take me home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, I couldn't resist, I had to include Moriarty, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Multi, OOC, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, Whump!Reader, kinda Whump!John, whump!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_exhausted_fangirl/pseuds/just_another_exhausted_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's back!<br/>He finds out about Sherlock's weak spot - the Reader, who's currently healing in a clinic from her the hell she's been through (part 1 of the series), and kidnaps her to get to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drinking The Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's short but I was so eager to post ;)

Every day was perfectly planned out. You’d hung the timetable of the following week over your bed and looked out of the window.  
    As soon as you’d arrived here three days ago, you’d hated it. Most patients looked normal and were about your age, but you didn’t have anything in common. You had spent most of your life on the streets – since you had been thirteen to be precise – and they’d grown up in their families. They would stare at you and then turn back to their smartphones, scrolling through Instagram other Twitter or other things you had missed out on, wearing wore nice clothes and jewellery. You couldn’t _stand_ them.

They were here because of the same reasons as you, or so the therapist had told you. He suggested you should go talk to them, make new friends and settle in. But the only friend you’d made so far was one of the male nurses.  
    He worked on another floor but you’d met him yesterday afternoon in the garden.

_“You’re new,” he stated and offered a handshake that you ignored. “I’m Rich. Don’t let first impressions fool you, I’m not actually a patient,” he jested. You couldn’t help a grin. He was wearing the nurse’s uniform but he did look a bit mental with his glimmering, wide brown eyes and awkward grin. There was something odd about him that you couldn’t quite put our finger on, but he was the first person around here to not ask any questions or stare at you with pity or annoyance. In a way, he reminded you of Sherlock._

_“I’m (Y/N),” you said. “Do you work here?” – “Yes, but with the old people,” he explained and pointed to the very top of the building where the windows were decorated with white snowflakes to welcome the coming winter._  
_“Can I ask you something?” you inquired after gathering some courage. You’d initially wanted to go to your appropriate nurse Seline with that question, but she’d looked at you with so much sadness after reading your file that you’d decided you didn’t like her._

 _“Anything!” Rich exclaimed. He looked dead serious about that._  
_You pulled out the schedule they’d given you at your arrival. “I don’t quite get what these courses are… or where, for that matter.”_

 _“Let me see.” He grabbed the sheet and looked it over. “Alright, on Monday, that first thing here, that’s Awareness Training. It’s in the common room of your floor, together with everyone else.” He smiled at your groan. “That one, after lunch, that’s Outside Activity. You get to chose from a few different sports in the first lesson, but I don’t remember what they are. Not my specialty, teenage activities. It’s right there.” He pointed at the sports field._  
_“I don’t know what this is, but the next thing on Tuesday is Occupational Therapy in the yellow room next to the nurse’s office. You’ll need to get checked up every Wednesday by the head nurse.”_

 _“Sounds awesome,” you sighed and stuffed the sheet back into your pocket._  
_“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Rich said and patted your shoulder, “and the others aren’t either. Try to find someone with some common interests.”_

You knew it was time for dinner, but you weren’t really hungry. You hated watching the anorexics move their legs up and down in rapid motions while eating, trying to hide food in their pockets or hair, the rich girls giggle together and some boy cry because his food was touching the sauce. It was a weird and aggravating place – how was anyone supposed to heal here?

You were sleeping in a double room but no one occupied the bed next to you, and you were glad about that. You’d been given Clonidin and Doxepin, two drugs that replaced the cocaine.  
    “They’ll help you sleep,” Seline had explained and you’d swallowed them with a shrug. Whatever. At least you got _something_.  
    But it wasn’t the same. It took away some of the restlessness and sadness, but you still craved the high that the coke gave you. You’d manage but you’d rather not.

* * *

 

You woke up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, breaths shallow and teeth gritted. You stormed to the restroom and chucked up the rest of your lunch into the toilet bowl. Although you couldn’t quite remember what the dream had been about, you betted on Paul. You remembered what Seline had told on your first day; “There’s always someone here, even at night. If you can’t sleep, just knock on the office door.” You didn’t like the thought of leaving your room, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep just like that. So you got on your feet and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.  
    A nurse was standing in front of the white board correcting something with a marker, when she noticed you. “(Y/N), right? Did you have a nightmare?” she asked and someone stepped out of the office with a steaming coffee mug in his hand – Rich.

“It’s a bit early for breakfast,” he grinned and patted your shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll make you some tea.” You smiled thankful. The female nurse would just pressure you into talking about it, but you trusted Rich to leave you alone with your thoughts.  
    “Sugar, yes or no?” – “Definitely,” you said and settled yourself on a chair in the common room. He sat down next to you.

“I thought you worked on the upper floor,” you said with a frown and he laughed. “Not anymore! They just moved me today, without even asking me!”  
    “Is that so…” You sipped on your tea and your eyes awkwardly darted around the room, not finding anything interesting enough to fix on. “Do you wanna talk about something on your mind?” Rich suddenly broke the silence.

No, you didn’t – but at the same time, you did. You suddenly wanted to get it all off your chest, let the words uncontrollably spill over your lips and cry your heart out. A weird feeling. You'd never actually wanted to share anything with anyone.  
    “Yeah, alright.” – “Where do you live?” The questions surprised you, but you understood that he probably wanted to start small before coming with the heavy questions.

“London. I used to be homeless, but some bloke took me in.”  
    “Some bloke?” he laughed and nearly spilled his coffee. You nodded. “A woman and her husband found me, uhm, bleeding in front of their house. They asked a friend of theirs if I could live with him – Sherlock is his name. He eventually came around and I ran away and got hurt, so here I am.”

He broke into a disbelieving grin. “ _Sherlock_ took you in?” – “Do you know him?” you asked with a frown. He negated. “Just a weird name, that’s all. And I _think_ it’s time for you to go back to bed.”  
    You were so tired when you wrapped yourself into your warm sheets that you dreamt that Rich closed the door with a malicious look on his face.

* * *

 

Awareness Training was probably the most boring thing you’d ever experienced. It was all about _feeling your feelings_ and _take in the outside world_. They explained that it helped you to realize what you needed if you felt sad or angry, but you doubted you would ever use their techniques again. You just put up a front and smiled through the whole thing.

You had to wait thirty minutes in line for the phone. You didn’t call Sherlock – he wouldn’t pick up anyway – but dialled the Watsons’ number.  
    “Watson,” Mary answered. You couldn’t help but smile at her voice. “Hi, it’s me,” you said.  
    “(Y/N)!” she exclaimed happily, “How are things? Are they treating you right?” You started to tell her about the weird atmosphere, the medicine they gave you, the garden and anything else you could think of. It felt good to finally be able to grouch to someone.  
    “Well, I think you’ll grow to like it, and Rich seems very nice. Can we come to visit you someday?” – “Yes, every Wednesday.” She promised to drag John and Sherlock with her and you hung up.

Just one and a half more days until you’d finally see some familiar faces around here. You couldn’t wait.


	2. An Early Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rich Barty" reveals his true nature when he drugs and kidnaps the Reader.

Tuesday started with a shaky scream, sweaty hands and bile rising in your throat - only this time, you managed to keep your dinner in. You were debating with yourself whether you should leave your room and ask Rich for some tea when he carefully opened the door.

“(Y/N)? I heard you scream; did you have another nightmare?” He entered the room and sat down on the bed next to you.  
    “Yes.” – “Do you want to talk about it?”

You pondered the possibilities and decided to start trusting him – which was a huge step for you to take, but an important one nonetheless.  
    “There was this guy who raped me – Paul. He used to think I was sort of his possession, but I ran away from him. I dreamt that he found me and cut my fingers and toes off.” You shuddered inwardly. Rich shook his head and smiled. “You know you’re safe here, right? You can trust _me_.”  
    You grinned. “So, you’re not a raging psychopath then?” – “Oh, of course I am,” he said and winked at you, “I’m just better at hiding it. Rich Barty, the one and only consulting criminal!”

You giggled. He handed you a cup of tea and shrugged. “Gotta have _some_ title, right?”  
    The hot beverage burnt your tongue but still noticed the weird taste. “What did you put in it?” you exclaimed, squinching up your face, “It’s disgusting!”  
    “A soporific,” he said, eyes glimmering. You started to panic but before you could scream, your vision darkened and you fell down a gaping hole.

* * *

 

John had just gotten out of bed when the landline rang. “Watson,” he yawned and scratched his head. What time was it?

“This is the Upperfields Psychiatrical Clinic, Tanya from the front desk. (Y/N) (Y/L/N) is currently under your care, is that correct?”  
    John’s heartbeat quickened. Why the _hell_ would they call this early? “Yes, it is – I mean, she is.”

“Our patient has disappeared overnight. We have already contacted the police, but as she isn’t suicidal, there will not be a primary-“  
    “She’s _gone_?” John exclaimed disbelievingly and let out a confused laugh. All the tiredness was instantly wiped from his body.

“We take it she’s not with you then?” – “No!”  
    “Alright, Sir. I should inform you that the whole thing is very weird though. The building’s locked at night and we have staff looking after our patients. No one saw her leave, but one of the night guards on duty fell sick during the night, so maybe she somehow got out when he was in the restroom. Do you know where she could be?”

Mary had woken up, too. “What’s going on?” she asked with a frown when she saw the concerned look on her husband’s face.  
    “I’ll call her roommate. It’s where she likes to live, so she’d probably be there. But, honestly, she could be anywhere! She’s lived on the streets before, it’s no problem for her to disappear.”  
    Tanya hummed and thanked him.

“(Y/N)’s gone.” John pinched the bridge of his nose and sat down on the couch. Mary nodded, “I know. But she wouldn’t… she wouldn’t just run away. We were going to meet her tomorrow!”  
    John gritted his teeth. “Something’s not right. I’m calling Sherlock, maybe he knows something.” – “John,” Mary said and gently placed her hand on his arm, “she’ll be alright. Paul’s gone. I’m sure she’s fine.” But with the worry written all over her features, her comfort didn’t seem sincere.

* * *

 

Something was wrong. There was a damp and bulky _something_ in your mouth, preventing you from moving your tongue or making any possible sound. You gagged on it when it tickled the back of your throat.  
    All at once, it suddenly came back to you what happened. Rich had spiked your drink with some sort of sleeping drug.

You could feel now that your hands and feet were bound and there was a blindfold over your eyes. 'What is this? Paul’s dead, right?'  
    But what if he wasn’t? What if he somehow survived the attack and blackmailed Rich to-

_Rich._

It all fell into place. The mad glimmer in his eyes, his jokes that had actually been the truth. How could you not have seen this? No, this wasn’t Paul. "I'm never trusting anyone ever again'" you muttered.  
    You had no idea where you were, why you were here and how you would be able to get out of this situation.

 _The blindfold_. It sat loosely on your nose, tied in a knot on your back head. You would be able to slide it off with your shoulder.  
    After some struggling with the rough cloth you could finally see the room you were in. A light from the ceiling bathed everything in a dim green light – the cell was barely the size of a toilet stall. Dry, dusty walls, too close to your body for you to even stretch your legs. When you looked up you could see that the light actually came from outside – the ceiling was a mere iron grating.

Your breath started hitching in your chest as you started crying. You weren’t panicking though, because seeing the exit meant that you could get out, and that was the straw you clung to.  
    ‘Now, how do I get rid of these shackles…’ In the shadow of your own body, you could hardly make out what they were made of, but they felt like zip ties – at least you really _hoped_ they were, because you knew how to free yourself from those.

You contorted your hands to reach the tiny lid, lifted it up and pulled. But after what seemed like only a split second, the lid slipped from your sweaty fingers and you cursed. This would need patience and time; two things you didn’t have right now.  
    But your will to escape was too great to give up, so, gritting your teeth in concentration, you lifted the lid again and again, making small progress every time you tried to move your hands away from each other. After an eternity, you were finally free.

Untying your feet was a matter of seconds now, thanks to your long nails, and your pushed yourself into a standing position, using the walls as support. Resigned, you realized that you couldn’t reach the grid above your head, no matter how much you stretched your arms or how high jumped. Luckily, the walls were so close together that you would be able to climb them. You dried your tears and prepared yourself for the strain to come.  
    But the drugs still hadn’t worn off completely. As soon as you tried to push yourself upwards with both of your feet against the wall, your vision darkened and with a _thump_ , you fell back to the ground.

* * *

 

Sherlock came over as soon as John had ended the call. He didn’t know where she was, he had said, they’ve had an agreement for her to try it for at least a week. She wouldn’t break it.

They met on the street in front of John and Mary’s flat to go to the clinic together. The detective’s face was grim when he turned up, mouth a tight line, his eyes looking at something they couldn’t see, completely lost in thought.  
    Even in the cab there were no words exchanged. Mary tried to talk to him a few times, but John just shook his head, a strained expression on his face. “Leave him. We need all the info we can get,” he whispered in her ear. She swallowed hard. “John, I’m not sure he’s actually thinking.”

And Mary was right – Sherlock’s frantic eye movements told a story of fear and anger, and although his thoughts were racing, it couldn’t be called _thinking_. He was considering every possibility, yes, but he was far from a conclusion. Why would she leave? Didn’t she trust them? Had she been kidnapped? If so, why hadn’t the abductor called? Surely, it was money he was after. Right?

John had to pull him out of the cab because Sherlock had made no intention of moving when they arrived.  
    “C’mon, we’re here. Snap out of it.” – “I’m fine,” Sherlock huffed and pulled free.

John sighed. “I didn’t say you weren’t, but now I’m pretty sure you’re _not_. If you’re worried about her – know that we are too.” – “And why would that help?”  
    The doctor closed his eyes in quiet resignation. “No reason.”

The lady at the front desk – it wasn’t Tanya; her nametag said _Linda_ – told them to sit down in the waiting room until the responsible nurse turned up. Mary stood in front of the glass door and browsed in some magazine so Sherlock and John could look around without anyone suspecting them to do so.  
    John’s eyes wandered over the photos of the employees, but there wasn’t anyone that looked familiar. He noticed a small sign next to the pictures:

**Nightshifts: Sybille Mauner, Nilla Miller, Rich Barty, Regula Wilkins**

His eyes got caught on the name _Rich Barty_ and his throat went dry.  
    “Sherlock,” he said in a raspy voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reading this; I'm a bundle of gratefulness!


	3. Dead Man Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary, John and Sherlock realize just how much of a danger the Reader is in.  
> Moriarty enjoys his new company.

When you awoke it was to a splitting headache and a bleeding nose. The events slowly started to come back to you. Rich. The drug in your tea. The _pain_.  
    If it meant anything at this point, you were very proud of your ability to contain your panic at the moment. You needed a clear head to escape.

With great difficulty and a still blurry vision you managed to stand up, leaning against the wall at your back. You remained in this position for a long time, trying to get your brain working. When the ache had gone down to a acute throbbing you finally trusted yourself to try again.

Soon, you were at the top of your prison cell and clung to the iron grid. You pushed yourself upwards with all the strength you had left and managed to move it to the side a bit.  
    ‘It’s just lying on top of the hole. It’s like he _wants_ me to escape,’ you thought and a sick feeling rose in your stomach. He was just playing with you.  
    As soon as you’d squeezed through the small gap in the ceiling, scraping the skin on your stomach in the process, you couldn’t keep the bile in your throat anymore and vomited all over the white-tiled floor. Great – you probably had a concussion, judging from your symptoms. At least your nosebleed had ceased.

You looked around. You were in a hospital room – at least it looked like it once used to be one. The neon lights on the ceiling flickered and illuminated the lamps, ECG monitors and cupboards on the walls with their bright greenish light. But apart from that, the room was completely empty. No beds, no syringes or bandages were lying around. Even when you got up, holding yourself upright on shaking legs, and searched through the cabinets you couldn’t find anything.

Maybe the door was unlocked. The thought was absolutely silly, but you had to try.  
    And to your great surprise, it was. Your normal, non-concussiony self wouldn’t have trusted this at all, but you were too tired, too dizzy to question any of the luck you had.

The room you stepped into looked exactly the same as the one you came from, except for the man sitting on a white plastic chair giving you a slow clap.

“Bra-vo!” Rich exclaimed happily and got to his feet. “Took you longer than expected, but at least you’re finally here.”  
    Your brain still had trouble believing that he wasn’t supposed to be nice, that he took pleasure in locking you up.  
    “That’s funny to you, is it?” you spat and clenched your fists.

“Don’t worry about the vomit, I’ll have someone clean that up,” he chattered, ignoring your comment. He took a step toward you, just for you to shrink backwards.  
    “Oh now, don’t be shy, (Y/N). I’m not going to hurt you _yet_ ,” he smiled and gently caressed your cheek. You had to force yourself not to jerk back. His touch left a burning trail on your skin, and you shook with disgust and anger. Then, he grabbed you by the shoulder and guided you towards another door, almost invisible against the same-coloured wall.

It led into a hallway. The _Exit_ sign stood out prominently with its green hue and jumped at the opportunity. You pulled free from his grasp and sprinted in the direction the sign pointed, but you didn’t get very far. The headache immediately returned, stronger than ever before and you saw the ground coming towards you. Rich caught you in time.

He picked you up like you weighed no more than a feather and carried you into yet another white room. It was all a blur from there; you absently felt that he strapped you against a cold table and then you were out again.

* * *

 

“What? What is it?” Mary asked when the two men suddenly went absolutely silent. She got no response, and when she walked over to them she noticed that they’d gone pale.  
   “Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” John said but his voice was heavy with fear. He pointed at the name **Rich Barty** on the nameplate and Mary felt her heart sink.

“I don’t think it is,” she croaked out. She knew a lot about James Moriarty; John had told her everything that had happened, including Rich Brook’s story. Barty was a mixture between the names Brook and Moriarty.

“Surely someone would have recognized him,” John remarked.  
    “No.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, a mere whisper. “Moriarty’s dead. It’s a funny thing the brain does – adjusting impossible things to facts you already know. If you’d see Einstein on the street, what would you think?” – “Oh.” John shook his head in desperation. That explained a lot.

“Exactly. ‘He looks a lot like Einstein.’ But not in a hundred years would you suspect the person to actually be _him_ – because he’s dead.” Sherlock turned around and they could see the barely concealed fury in his eyes. “He’s taken her to get to me. Just another one of his games, but this time, I’m not laughing.”

John still clearly remembered how the two geniuses had entertained themselves a few years ago: Moriarty had planted bombs on people, given Sherlock a riddle to solve in an amount of time that got shorter with every victim. Even while playing with lives, his friend had been sickly joyful through the whole thing; _on fire_ , as he’d called it.  
    But this time, it was different. Too close to home.

* * *

 

“Finally! I was getting so _bored_ ,” Rich laughed as soon as you’d opened your eyes and squinted against the bright light. Your head felt a lot better and you dared to turn it in the direction of the voice.

He was standing next to a cart with weird objects, syringes and flasks on it and seemed genuinely happy to see you.  
    “No worries, I’m here now,” you said drily and tried to move your hands, but they were bound to the table, as well as you legs. “Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?” you asked, fighting the tremor in your voice.

“Nothing, love. You are _wonderful_. And Sherlock thinks that too, apparently.”  
    You frowned. “You know Sherlock?” – “Where were you three years ago? I was all over the news!” He pulled out his mobile phone and skimmed through some articles before deciding on one.

“ _James Moriarty aka Rich Brook found dead on St. Bart’s rooftop_ ,” he read and sniggered. “Well, they were wrong. _Rich Brook was a fraud all along._ Much better. _But all of this comes too late for the detective who killed himself by jumping off a roof about a year ago_.” He paused for a moment.

“We’re buddies, Sherlock and I. We played a lot of games together, keeping each other occupied and sharp. But he got boring so I decided to crawl out of my shell again. And he seems to like you, so what better way to make things interesting than to separate you two lovebirds for a while.” His grin was still casual, as if he was talking about the weather.

You were taken aback. “You kidnapped me just so you could get to Sherlock?” you asked disbelievingly.  
    He threw his head back with laughter. “No, silly! I can get to him anytime I want, hell, he would probably welcome me with open arms! No no, this is just to make him nervous. I made sure to cover my tracks so that he’ll never find you. He’ll be thrown off balance when he receives you piece by piece in his mail, and that’s when it’s fun for me to strike.”

Your heart started to pound loudly in your ears and you felt a tight know of horror in your throat. This didn’t sound like a situation you could escape from. If he really was who he claimed to be, he was clever enough to take all the right precautions to ensure your stay.

The people who said hope was the last thing to die were absolutely wrong, because in that moment, you felt completely and utterly hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was awesome to write! :D  
> Thanks to everyone who's reading, you make my day everyday.


	4. Shooting Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reader tries to find a way to inform Sherlock about where she's being held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw Moriarty on the Setlock pictures after I wrote this chapter.  
> I guess I'm a fortuneteller now.

“ _How_ can he be alive? He shot himself, you saw it! You told me he _definitely_ killed himself!“ John’s voice was so loud that a nurse popped her head into the waiting room to shush him.

Sherlock was still staring at the name as though he was trying to learn every single edge of every letter by heart. “He _did_ , I’m certain of it. This must be a copy-cat of some sorts, there is _no way_ he’s still alive,” he said in a hoarse voice and John noticed a droplet of sweat running down his temple. Mary had seen it too and rushed to his side, pulling him away from the sign.

“Sherlock, you need to calm down,” she said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s him or not; we need to find her _now_.”  
    “Of course it matters!” Sherlock threw his arms in the air and was about to say something else, but he got interrupted by another nurse – her nametag said Seline – who guided them into a private room.

“I understand that you must be upset. We are doing everything in our power to find your ward, but anything you might know will be helpful.”  
    John nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You said, the night guard on duty fell sick. Who was that?”  
    Seline seemed surprised at his question. “I’m sorry Sir, but that is information I cannot give you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Please, Seline. We have a strong suspicion we might know him.” The nurse bit her lip. “I’m really sorry, I can’t-“

“Was it Rich Barty?” Sherlock asked and slammed his flat hand on the table, causing everyone to jump. Mary squeezed his shoulder and shook her head. “I told you to calm down, didn’t I?” she said warningly.

“Y-Yes, it was Rich. He hasn’t been to work since. Some sort of intestine infection.” The three visitors stared at her. They had suddenly gone very pale and Seline found herself defending a man she didn’t even know. “Look, I know what this sounds like, but it can’t have been him! He’s a trusted member of our clinic! You are being paranoid.”

“Is this what he looks like?” Mary showed her a photo on her phone.  
    “Well, sort of… His hair is much longer, he wears it in a ponytail and it’s sort of light brown. And his face is different. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t think this is your man.”  
    Mary, the only one who’d remained somewhat calm in this whole situation, said, “Thank you very much for your time, Miss. I think I these two gentlemen need some fresh air.”

John had sat down on the bench next to the car park and Sherlock was tirelessly pacing on the cold, wet concrete.  
    “It really is him, then,” Mary mumbled. “What are we going to do now? He’s just as clever as Sherlock and we have absolutely no lead whatsoever where he could’ve taken her.”  
    “Did you really have to point out the obvious?” John said annoyed and got up. “We could at least go back to Baker Street, maybe we could find out more if we had a computer.”  
    They didn’t get an answer from Sherlock, and they didn’t assume he had even been listening.

* * *

 

He would start with your right middle toe. At least, that was what he’d told you. He’d gotten a call and left the room 4252 seconds ago. You’d counted. It calmed you down, because every second he wasn’t there was a good one.

_4253\. 4254. 4255…_

When you arrived at 4500, a painful throb in your temples forced you to stop. You imagined someone massaging them since you couldn’t do it yourself, but, unsurprisingly, it didn’t really help.  
    If only there was a way to let Sherlock know where you where. But even if there was, the only thing you knew was that you were in an abandoned hospital. You could be in another country or even on a different continent. And, you realized with a desperate sigh, the hospital rooms could be set up. What if it was all just a stage? There hadn’t been any windows to give you prove.  
    You scanned the room again. There had to be _something_. And then, you spotted it.

There was oxygen piping on the wall next to you. **Oxylitre, OXYGEN** and **healthcare** was written on the regulator. _It’s in English._  
    You could’ve been in America, of course, but you doubted it. It would pose much more of a challenge to get your limbs – you shuddered – delivered to Sherlock, if you were on the other side of the world.

The hope was back.

Now you just needed a way to write on your toe. You wondered for a moment if it was all set up; if he anticipated you to plan something like this, but you shook the uncomfortable thought from your mind. You had nothing else.

You pulled at your hand shackles with all your strength, but they wouldn’t even budge. When you tried your feet though, you felt that they were much less strongly attached to the table. “Please don’t come back now,” you mumbled with a quick gaze toward the door and pulled again.

The restraints on your right foot loosened with a loud _twang_ and you were able to pull it free. But what could you even do that the psychopath wouldn’t notice and Sherlock would?  
    ‘Stop it. Just concentrate on doing something,’ you scolded yourself and looked around nervously. The only thing in your reach was the cart, but that would do quite nicely.

There was a hand disinfectant and a few bottle of liquids on there. You had no idea what they were – you couldn’t read it from where you were lying – but it surely was hospital stuff. It had to be. Once again, you were relying on an assumption.

With a few wriggles and impressive flexibility of your foot that you were unaware you had, you managed to pull the cart close enough to you to reach it, clumsily slumping your toes on the tray. You were biting your lips so hard in concentration that you could feel droplets of blood running down your chin, but you didn’t have the time or luxury to care about it.

‘Please don’t come back, please don’t come back,’ you chanted over and over in your head as you pressed your skin onto the disinfectant and managed to get a good spray out of it. The flask behind it was next.  
    After covering your toes in several different liquids, you pushed the cart away from you and slid your leg back under the restraint.

 _He’ll notice. There’s no way he won’t see the mess you’ve made._  
    All the panic you’d been pushing down now hit you with full force. You breathing started to become raspy and the taste of blood in your mouth made you want to vomit. A whimper escaped your throat, and then the door opened. But it wasn’t Moriarty.

* * *

 

“He’s been in there for hours; why won’t he open the door?” Mary sounded concerned. John and her knew that once he was in his mind palace, there was no way of getting him out of there voluntarily, but that didn’t explain why he locked them out. They both realized what this might mean.  
    “What if he OD’d?” John uttered the unspeakable. “What if he’s dying in there and we can’t get in?” His voice elevated towards the end and he pounded on the door again, cold sweat forming on his forehead.

And finally, Sherlock unlocked the door and let them in.  
    “I’m not OD’ing, John; it’s all safe,” he slurred and leaned against the door frame for support. The doctor’s eyes hardened at the sight of his dilated pupils and traces of blood on his sleeve.  
    “How much did you take?” when he didn’t get an answer, he grabbed his friend by the collar and shook him. “HOW MUCH?!” he yelled.

“1.7 grams,” Sherlock replied and Mary gasped.  
    “You call that safe?” she snarled, grabbed him by the arm and sat him down on the couch. “That’s lethal!” – “I’ve got a high tolerance.” Sherlock was starting to huff and unhandily slapped her hand away. “I need to find her John, you don’t understand-“

“ _I_ don’t understand? _You’re_ the sociopath here! I’m sure Moriarty will let you know what you can do to get her back. We can't do anything but wait right now.” There was pain in his voice.  
    Sherlock shook his head and said, “He doesn’t want me to _get her back_. He just needs her to annoy me.”

“Alright,” Mary put in, “but you’re forgetting something: (Y/N) is quite a clever girl. She’ll figure something out, I’m sure of it.”  
    Sherlock blinked rapidly. “There’s really no need for unrealistic optimism.”  
    She sighed and sat down next to him. Yes, the chances were low, but she didn’t give up – she couldn’t afford to. Both of the men had lost their hope, but she would show them.


	5. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player enters the game and it isn't at all who the Reader expected it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for graphic descriptions of violence!

A woman stepped into the room, auburn long hair, small mouth, and a face you knew too well.  
    “Molly?” You weren’t able to hide your surprise. What the _fuck_ was she doing here? You completely forgot about Rich for a moment, overtaken by the surrealism of the situation. The friendly, gentle Molly was working for a psychopath.  
    “What’s he holding over you? Please get out of here; Sherlock will figure something out!” you begged after you’d found your voice again.

She didn’t acknowledge you in any way, she just walked over to the tray, frowning at the mess.  
    “What have you done with the bottles?” She sounded shirty. There was nothing left of the shyness and insecurity she was known for. Your words got stuck in your throat when she turned around and flashed you an angry glare.  
    “Answer me!”

Panic churned in your chest. “Nothing! It wasn’t me!” you cried and tried to make yourself as small as humanly possible. It was obvious that she didn’t believe you but she went with it and you supressed a sigh of relief.  
    After she’d cleaned the tray, she picked up a scalpel and smirked. “I was supposed to numb your foot but since you broke the bottles, there’s none left to use.” She stuffed a rag into your mouth and fastened your restraints.

“No!” you screamed into the gag, but she didn’t even flinch. Her movements were swift and practiced when she set the scalpel to your toe and pressed town.  
    Hot pain exploded in your whole leg. Your back arched from the table and your muffled scream filled the empty white room. You could feel the sharp blade carve through your flesh, one, two, three times, until it scraped against the bone.

Bile rose in your throat and swashed into your mouth but the cloth prevented you from spitting it out. Luckily, you were still sane enough to keep your airway closed so wouldn’t choke on your own vomit. But that was all not that bad compared to the loud crack that signalized the breaking of the bone, and the hot blood that pooled around your foot.  
    You were still screaming, eyes wide open, knuckles white from clamping the edge of the table, until you finally fainted.

* * *

 

John was endlessly pacing in the living room, until Sherlock yelled, “Stop it! You’re driving me crazy!” Mary jumped from her sleep and rubbed her eyes. The two men looked at her apologetically but continued quarrelling.

“You took too much cocaine, you don’t get a say in this!” – “You _know_ how high my tolerance is, John! I’m fine; no, I’m _brilliant_! I can see it all in front of me - all the possible places where Moriarty could be. I’m narrowing it down to thirty right now and it could be twenty if you’d shut up!”  
    John groaned. “You don’t get to do this just because someone’s life is on the line! I don’t want to be worrying about you too!”

Sherlock was about to snap back, when the shrill ring of the doorbell sounded through the whole house. They heard Mrs Hudson open the door.  
    “Stop fighting, you two, there’s a package here for Sherlock!” she shouted. Mary leapt up with wide eyes and a look that clearly said _Now what did I tell you_. They all hurried down the stairs where the elder landlady stood with a small brown parcel in her hands. There were no date stamps or writing on it.

“Who delivered it?” Sherlock asked.  
    “No one. There wasn’t anybody there when I opened the door, but I assumed it’s for you.” Sherlock nodded and wanted to grab it from her fingers. John intervened. “Stop! Don’t you want to take it to the lab?”

“There won’t be any leads on the wrapping, John, only inside it,” Mary put in and the detective nodded. “But yes, of course I will take it to the lab,” he said with a wavy movement of his hand. “We’ll go there right now.”

The burst into the lab half expecting Molly to be there, but the room was empty. “She’s always here,” Sherlock said and sounded a bit disappointed.  
    “She has a social life too, you know,” John grinned with a headshake and looked for a scissor or scalpel to open the package.  
    “No, she doesn’t,” Sherlock mumbled, handed him a blade from one of the drawers and uncovered the giant microscope with attached laptop.

John lifted the lid and jerked back. He had gone pale and Mary rushed to his side to look at the contents of the parcel and froze. “Sherlock…” she choked out, not being able to lift her gaze from the bloody stump. He looked up from the microscope which he had been turning on and furrowed his brows.  
    “What’s in it?” he asked and extended his hand. Neither John nor Mary responded, they were still looking at the thing like fish at light, so he walked over to them.

Silence filled the room like a deadly poison. Sherlock’s expression was completely indifferent but his hands were trembling when he gently took out the severed toe with a rubber glove and placed it on a tray. John’s gaze followed every one of his movements and he finally said, “I’ll kill him.”

After about half an hour, Sherlock straightened up and recited with closed eyes, “It’s her right middle toe, severed about three hours ago. That limits the places she could be held in to twenty-three. The cut is highly professional, so Moriarty probably hasn’t done it himself – this kind of thing needs practice – but we can’t be sure about that. There are no traces of narcotics in her blood, “ he tried without success to swallow the lump in his throat, “but the skin is tainted with various liquids that are typically found in hospitals, including hand disinfectant. I doubt he’s put it there himself; she must’ve used it as a clue for me. Furthermore, the building has to be abandoned or not completely used and that leaves us with three places – _Queen Elisabeth’s Hospital for Children, UCL Middlesex Hospital_ and _Normansfield Hospital_.”  
    Mary cleared her throat and allowed herself a smile. “I told you she’s clever.”

* * *

 

The first thing you noticed was the smell; the stench of old blood and disinfectant. The second thing was how dry your mouth was. You smacked your chappy lips a few times, glad about the lack of the cloth in your mouth, and finally opened your eyes. The room you were in was very dark, the only light source being the light coming from under the door, but you could make out a bucket at the far end, a tray with food and a bottle of water. You would’ve given anything for some pain medication right now, but they weren’t going to be that kind.

You tried get up from the cold, stiff mattress you were lying on, but hot pain immediately exploded in your leg and forced you back down. You weren’t able to supress loud keening at the burning waves that wandered through your body.  
    _Molly_. Why was she working for Rich? _Why_? You tried to figure it out, gladly burying yourself in distracting thoughts while your heartbeat calmed.

When you finally had the courage to try again, the pain wasn’t as bad as before and you dared to look at the damage. She hadn’t bandaged your toe, but at least she had stitched the wound. From what you could see in the gloomy light, the stump was cleanly sutured and it wasn’t bleeding or ulcerating. You allowed yourself a sigh of relief.

The water and food were a few metres away, mocking you with the distance you couldn’t conquer. You stomach rumbled at the sight of what seemed to be bread and cheese, but as soon as you crawled forward a tiny bit, all the agony was back, pushing you back onto the cold hard ground.

Had Sherlock received your 'present'? You knew he would be clever enough to examine every last patch of uninjured skin on it, but that was only if neither Molly nor Rich would do the exact same thing first. What if they’d cleaned it?

You felt the panic attack coming but you didn’t have the will to fight it. The familiar sinking feeling set in, your chest tightened and your head throbbed with the unleashed memories you’d tried to forget thousands of times. A few seconds later you were panting for air, heartbeat so rapid and loud in your ears that it almost hurt. There were hands all over you, clothes ripped from your body, violent kisses on your burning skin; you’d never really left Paul, he was still ever-present in the shadows of the streets, grabbing your neck whenever you weren’t paying attention…

When it finally passed, you were left in the dark room, fingers bleeding from clawing at the stone wall and ground, tears streaming down your temples and seeping into your greasy hair. Normally, you could calm yourself down with the familiarity of your bedroom or wherever you were staying at that moment, but here, you'd just slipped from one nightmare into the next.

With one final push of boldness, you crawled towards the tray of food and started eating and drinking, unsuccessfully trying to turn off the angry pain in your foot. With something in your stomach, you already felt better. You weren’t going to break under Rich. You had been through worse and Sherlock would figure out where you were. _He had to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I made Molly bad... I guess I just wanted to write something "new".


	6. About Courage And Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets involved and the reader makes an attempt to escape.

They decided to involve the police, even though Sherlock blatantly protested.  
    “We can’t handle this one on our own and you know it. Stop being such an idiot!” John snapped and made sure to hold his phone out of the detective’s reach. Sherlock leapt forward but he quickly made a step to the right.  
    “Goddamnit, John! If Moriarty doesn’t control the police, he’ll definitely know what we’re planning if we involve it!” Sherlock shouted back and threw his hands up in irritation.“Stop it, you two.” Mary’s voice was calm as always when she stepped into the living room with a steaming cuppa in her hands. “We _are_ going to call Greg, Sherlock. He isn’t completely stupid; they won’t turn up with fifteen police cars.”      
    Sherlock wasn’t convinced but he eventually gave in. He grabbed his violin and started plucking the strings. An oddly beautiful melody filled the room, one note following the next in a calm and soothing rhythm.

John went into the kitchen to call Lestrade. Mary rose and stood next to Sherlock who was watching the street below his flat.  
    “Are you alright?” she asked and took a sip of her tea. The man lowered the violin and smiled lightly at her. “Course. Just nervous.”  
    She nodded. “Yeah, me too. She’s a strong girl, though. I mean, she survived being stabbed in the chest, she’ll get over this, too,” she said, more to herself than to Sherlock.

“Come on, we’re leaving for the station. Greg’s checking the scan for noise complaints and the like.” John stopped in his tracks at the scene before him. “Lovebirds,” he mumbled and shook his head. Mary grinned. “I want a divorce, Doctor Watson.”

* * *

 

How much time had passed since you’d emptied the water bottle? Three hours? Thirty?  
    Without any sunlight you’d lost every feeling for time. They weren’t bringing you any more food or water and the thirst was driving you crazy. You actually knew very well how to ration but you’d been in so much pain that you’d ignored everything you’d learned. At least you were able to keep in the vomit caused by the withdrawal in your body, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to make it if you wouldn’t get some medicine to decrease your symptoms.

With a groan, you rolled to the other side, careful not to touch anything with your toe – or rather, the lack of it. From what you could see in the dark, a bruise had started to build over your whole foot, like an ugly purple and yellow flower on your tender skin. You didn’t dare to touch the stump yet; every movement you made was controlled and slow from the fear of the pain.  
    But you couldn’t control it when you were sleeping (if you could call what you were doing _sleeping_ ), and often woke up with a cry on your lips, frantically stretching your foot away from the ground and your body.

But mostly, you were in a state of desperate slumber, trying to get some rest despite of your dry mouth and throat, the hunger pangs in your stomach and the dull, throbbing ache of your foot. You didn’t know if there were cameras on the ceiling, or if there was someone in the hallway outside your door, but you still screamed for water until your throat was sore and you could taste blood from your split lips. You started to suck on them for at least _some_ fluid to calm your body and mind.

Until, finally, after what felt like weeks, someone opened the door.  
    “Rise and shine!” Rich shouted and stepped into the room, the phone in his pocket playing Bee Gees and a bottle of water in his hand.  
    “Rich?” you croaked and tried, without success, to sit up. He raised his eyebrows and sat down on the floor next to you. “Oh, yes. I should probably tell you, my real name is James. But my friends call me Jim.”

“You have friends?” you scoffed and were proud of the all the spirit you’d kept.  
    He threw his head back and laughed. “You are my best friend, actually! You’re _so_ much fun.” He handed you the bottle and you immediately wrapped your arms around it, afraid he might take it from you again.  
    “Drink that, I need you to come with me.” What else could you do? Being stubborn would kill you right now, so you obeyed. You only took small sips, too much at a time would cause you to throw it all up again. James waited patiently. As soon as you’d finished, he helped you stand up and gave you support while walking.

‘Why is he being so nice?’ you thought and curled your lips in disgust. The places he touched you felt dirty and hot; all you wanted to do was scrub yourself with disinfectant. But you couldn’t walk without his help, so you complied, making a mental note to strangle him with your bare hands as soon as you were stronger.  
    He led you into the room where Molly had amputated your toe and you shuddered at the memory. Your screams still clung to wall and you could still smell the fear radiating through the clean air. The pride in your posture gave room to something more abject and defeated when he laid you down on the cold chrome table. There was no escaping him, even if you knew where you were. You physically didn’t have the strength, and he knew that too. He’d probably calculated how to make you as weak as possible while still keeping you alive.

“Why is Molly helping you?”  
    James looked up from working on your feet straps with surprise. “I don’t know,” he chuckled, “she asked me to. And I willingly let her.” This didn’t make any sense. How could she have faked over nine years of longing after Sherlock without _anyone_ noticing? Or did she possibly hold a grudge because he didn’t love her back? Could it drive her this bitter?

“What should we send your lovely boyfriend next?” James studied your body with the interest of a butcher over his meat and you felt beads of cold sweat forming on your forehead.  
    “He’s not my boyfriend,” you spat, trying to cover up your fear. The man laughed. “I’m sure. What would you think about… your tongue? Your talking is getting kind of annoying.”

Every single drop of blood drained off your face. This couldn’t be real. This would kill you. Apart from that you never would be able to talk again, how were you supposed to swallow? Eat? Drink? Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. You were supposed to make a plan, loosen your restraints, _anything_ , but you were scared stiff.

_No no no no…_

With spots in your vision, you watched him unpack a scalpel. The rustling of the plastic paper wrapping was oddly loud and you suddenly knew what to do. When he pulled out a leather band to restrain your forehead and chin, you shot up and headbutted him as hard as you could. With a surprised yelp, he jerked backwards. The blade landed on the table with a loud clatter, right next to your hand.  
    James was still bedazzled and holding his head, but you didn’t have long. You sawed at the band with all your might.

Right hand free. Left hand free. He charged towards you but you cut his cheek.  
    “Don’t come any closer!” you yelled as loud as your raw throat allowed and freed your feet, keeping both eyes fixed on your kidnapper. He started laughing. Startled, you froze.  
    “Well, _that_ is what I call fun! But, you see, I’ve not come unprepared.” He grasped something from his belt and pointed it at you. “Why don’t you drop the scalpel and lie back on the table for me,” he snickered and undid the safety on the small gun in his hand. Your heart skipped a beat. _Of course_ he was armed.

You obliged. As soon as you felt the metal against your back again, he put his weapon back into his trousers. “I am not an unfair man, (Y/N). Unlike Paul, I really appreciate your efforts. I won’t take your tongue – _if_ you give me a better idea.”

Your mind raced. It was the only chance you were gonna get. But what could his sick mind find just as fun? And then, you had a genius idea – theoretically speaking.

“My fingernails. Take my fingernails.” Your voice was shaky and very quiet, but he still heard you.  
    “Very nice offer! 100 points to you!” He stuffed a rag into your mouth and added, “Of course, I’ll clean them before I send them. We don’t want him finding out where you’re held, now, do we?” You flinched at his words. Well, there went all your plans.

_What if he did it with your toe, too?_

You forbid yourself to think like that and turned back to James, who had an amused look on his face. “Oh _no_ , did I foil everything? Aw, I’m really sorry but that’s how it has to be.” With these words, he set the blade to your finger and dragged.

* * *

 

The station was nearly empty when they arrived. Greg held up a piece of paper. “No disturbances whatsoever around those hospitals. Are you sure that’s the only places she could be?”

Sherlock flashed him an irritated glance. “Of course I am. We’ll need to check them all then.”  
    Marry nodded. “We could each take one, with a few policemen of course.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. “It’s Moriarty. You won’t stand a chance.”

John snorted. “Well, thank you. But he won’t know we’re coming, right?”  
    “He probably will. Maybe, the toe is a trap. He _wants_ me to find out where he is because he’s tired of hiding.” – “Maybe,” John said, “but (Y/N)’s still in there. And our top priority is finding her.”

Greg grabbed Sherlock’s forearm when the detective failed to reply. “We’ll find her. We’ve done it before; we’ll do it again. Simple as that.”  
    Sherlock blinked rapidly, staring at seemingly nothing. “Yes. Yes, we will.”


	7. UCL Middlesex Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg, John, Mary and Sherlock go on a rescue mission.

A shiver went through your whole body when you woke up. You were still lying on the chrome table, naked shoulders pressed against the cold surface that just wouldn’t warm up, no matter how long you were lying on it. As you turned your head to the side, your vision seemed to get dragged along with a bit of a delay and the room started spinning. You quickly shut your tired eyes to prevent your stomach from churning.

A a few minutes later, you dared to try again, much more careful this time. You looked down at your hands. He’d only taken the nails from your left hand, which was wonderful, because it was paralyzed anyway. He probably didn’t know that, or he would’ve taken the other ones; and he couldn’t have noticed because you’d passed out as soon as he’d started cutting. For the first time, you were thankful for what Paul had done to you. But your foot was still throbbing with pain, so you had no chance of walking away from here unaided.

Why did he leave you here? You desperately wished for your cell where the light didn’t hurt your eyes, where you had a mattress and a bucket to pee into. A silly and childish part of yourself still hoped for Sherlock to rescue you – a bit like a knight in a fairy tale – but reality looked a lot different. Of course you had no idea how much time had passed, but it felt like weeks since you’d been taken from the psychiatry and surely, he would’ve been quicker to find you. He was a genius after all.

* * *

 

“Fuck!”

Sherlock threw his laptop carelessly against the wall where the screen cracked and went pitch black. John flinched violently, ripped from his sleep, and jumped from his chair.  
    “What happened?” he slurred and his eyes darted around the room, looking for a threat.

“We’re not fast enough! Where is Greg? He’s supposed to be here seventeen minutes ago; the more time we lose the higher is the possibility of finding a corpse!”  
    John frowned. “I know that, Sherlock, and he does too. Swearing won’t make him arrive faster.”

The detective grabbed his coat. “Well, I’m leaving _now_.”  
    John sighed and stepped into his way. “No, you won’t. You've made a genius plan, and we’re all going to follow it, _including you_.” Sherlock pushed him aside, a frantic expression on his face.  
    “She can’t die, John,” he said and ran down the stairs.

“SHERLOCK!”, John yelled, following him, “You’re being stupid! She’ll die _for sure_ if you just waltz in there now. You don’t even know which hospital!”  
    His friend froze, hand on the doorknob. After a moment of heavy silence, he pulled retracted it but kept his back to the doctor. He whispers something but John doesn’t catch it. “What was that?”

The detective shakes his head. “Nevermind.”  
    “No, you said something; tell me.” – “I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock’s voice sounded echoic against the wooden door. John groaned. “You’re being childish.”

“I said, I’m scared.” Sherlock’s voice was surprisingly steady and calm for what he just admitted.

John’s eyes softened and he took a hesitant step towards his friend. “I know. I am too.” He wanted to say more, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door.  
    “It’s me,” Lestrade’s voice muffled. They stepped outside to Mary leaning against one of the three police cars. She would’ve looked like any other thirty-five-year-old woman if it hadn’t been for the holster with gun around her chest and the knife in her belt.

“Prepared for anything, huh?” John’s voice was a bit sour but Mary wasn’t fazed.  
    “Never enough for Moriarty,” she said and winked at Sherlock. He didn’t smile and she nodded understandingly at his silent plea and got into the car. John followed Sherlock into another and Greg took the last one after handing them all an earpiece.

“Press this tiny button here to turn it on, talk and then press it again to turn it off. They’re not waterproof though, so don’t go swimming with them.” His joke failed miserably, but John still smiled encouragingly. “Thanks, Greg.”  
    Him and Sherlock would take the _UCL Middlesex Hospital_ , an old brick building in Central London. The only reason it was still standing was because it was of historical and architectural interest to some. And, as the internet had told him, it had been the inspiration for Charles Dickens’ workhouse in _Oliver Twist_.

“Can I ask you something?” John asked softly five minutes after departure. They were riding with two policemen, who were exchanging some parenting tips and listening to overplayed music on the radio. Sherlock continued to stare out of the window, but nodded.  
    “Why do you care so much about her?”

The dark haired man just shrugged, but John wasn’t going to take this as an answer anymore. “Bullshit. You know exactly why.”  
    “She’s my friend, is that so absurd?” – “It is for you, but sometimes I’m not so sure about you…” John said with a small smile. Sherlock looked at him. “Neither am I,” he replied matter-of-factly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it again when he realized that he had no idea how to put it. These feelings were new for him – compassion, maybe sympathy – and he struggled to put them into words. The policemen had gone silent, listening to their conversation intently.

“What?” John huffed, “C’mon, Sherlock, don’t be like that.”  
    “She’s a heroin addict.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper. John’s stern expression immediately softened. “She reminds me so much of myself, it’s almost silly.” He closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. “And she was getting better, and it made me so happy, you know?”

“It certainly isn’t like you,” John remarked, “but everyone has to start sometime, right?”  
    “Sod,” Sherlock replied and grinned a little.

“We’re here,” the first policeman, Thomas, said. They’d stopped by some dumpsters at the back of the building so Moriarty wouldn’t suspect anything – if he even was in there. They each knew exactly what to do; Thomas would walk through the front door with the intention of ‘doing a quick routine check of the building’, John would take the side entrance (and a gun), and Sherlock and the last policeman, Furkan, would take a broken window leading right into the main x-ray.  
    “Can everyone hear me?” Furkan asked quietly over the earpiece and John and Thomas replied with a simple yes. “Good. We’re in and going to the right, down the hall. We’re on floor B.”

Thomas was next to talk. “I’m on floor A, going left. Entrance and reception are all clear.” Sherlock was barely listening, but when John didn’t say anything, he narrowed his eyes and shot the other man a quick glance.  
    “John?” Furkan whispered while checking the next room, “All patient rooms are clear, we’re moving to x-ray. John, come in.” But there was no reply.  
    “Maybe he can’t talk because he’s hiding or something like that,” the policeman said and Sherlock nodded, because he’d had the same idea. “I’m going over to the side entrance. Furkan, you search the rest and then follow,” he said and ran towards the stairs, not waiting for a reply. His heart was pounding fast and his arms tickled from the adrenaline that was being pumped through his veins.

Careful not to make a noise, he climbed down the broken steps until he arrived on floor U, where John was supposed be. He noticed how rusty the door was – it would creak horribly if he just opened it like that. So he just pressed his ear against the cold metal and closed his eyes, listening for any kind of noise. When he heard none, he said through the speaker, “I’ll go in now. John, if you’re in U and hearing this, give me a signal to where you are,” and opened the door. It didn’t creak as much as he’d feared but in the abandoned building it still sounded like a siren. He stepped into the hallway. Down here, it was much more down-and-out than at the surface; the paint was flaking off the walls, the smell of mould hung in the air, but the flickering lights on the ceiling were still working.

There was no sound to be heard, even the cars sounded muffled. He didn’t move for exactly two minutes and listened again. After he was sure he was alone, he reported, “I can’t hear anyone,” and opened the first door. A quick glance around it told him that nobody had been in here for over five months. He couldn’t decide if the emotion he was feeling was disappointment or relief, and he angrily brushed it away.

The second and third room were in the same state as the first, but he still had eighteen to go. The forth room was different, and _very_ interesting – it was locked. He pulled out his lock kit, simultaneously checking if the gun was still there, and after a moment, the door opened without a sound. He peeked around the door and froze. His gaze wandered over all the used things; the mattress, bucket, tray and bottle, and he closed the door behind him.  
    These things told stories of thirst, hunger – and desperation, he corrected himself when he noticed the blood on the wall and floor. His throat suddenly felt painfully constricted and anger exploded in him like fire. He resisted the urge to grab the bottle and smash in on the wall and took a deep breath.

“She was down here for four days,” he told the others, “with two bottles of water and one tray of food. The thirst must’ve driven her insane.”  
    “Alright, I’m coming down,” Furkan said before a gunshot shook the building. Sherlock flinched and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could be able to see through it.

“Fuck”, the policeman yelled and Sherlock could hear a distant laughter. It sounded kind of familiar. “I’m bleeding, I think Thomas is dead, get out of there,” Furkan choked out, before he turned off his earpiece. Sherlock’s mind went very calm. He didn’t have much time, every move he made was calculated. His feet carried him out of the room, down the hallway, checking every door, but no for no longer than three seconds, because he could already hear the staircase door on B open with a familiar jar.

And then, at last, there was locked door. He worked on opening it, but his fingers were shaking again. He cursed himself for not shooting up before leaving for this rescue mission, but it was too late now. He eventually managed get it open and immediately locked it again before turning around.

“Am I dreaming?” you croaked with a smile. Sherlock let out an incredulous laugh before covering his mouth with his hand and remembering the threat that was descending the stairs this very moment.  
    He rushed over to you, a look of such relief on his face that you couldn’t help but to match your smile with his. “Can you walk?” he asked and cut through your restraints. You sat up a bit too quickly and felt vomit in your mouth. He jumped back when you threw up on the floor and looked at the door in distress. “Couldn’t you keep that in?” he snapped.

You shook your head. “Concussion,” you mumbled and closed your eyes to keep the room from spinning.  
    He nodded and wanted to wrap his arm around your chest to help you stand, when someone unlocked the door and opened it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference for the hospitals I used are from [here](http://www.derelictlondon.com/hospitals.html).  
> So, I _know_ that Sherlock has felt compassion and other feelings before (as he's not an actual sociopath) but I just thought it fitted the story.


	8. Bloody Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of shooting, the Reader makes it up the stairs and John wakes up.

John hadn’t even come close to opening the side entrance door when someone pressed a gun barrel against his back. He immediately froze, his mind was racing as he was trying to supress the long inculcated reflexes.  
    “Drop your weapon,” a familiar voice said, but before he was able to figure out who it was, there was a painful hit to his temple and everything went black.

* * *

 

When Moriarty entered the room he looked surprised at first but his face quickly lit up with a big smile.  
    “(Y/N) and Sherlock!” he exclaimed and closed the door. You couldn’t help a shudder and you felt Sherlock’s grips tighten around your chest.  
    “I don’t suppose there’s a chance that you’ll let us through,” he stated. Moriarty grinned even more and threw his arms into the air. “Oh, Sherlock! Where would be the fun in that?” He walked over and, of course, immediately caught how the detective tried to shield you against his presence.

“I _knew_ you two were a couple.” Was that jealousy? You decided that you must’ve imagined it and tried to stand tall on your uninjured foot. Your vision immediately blurred and you feared that you were going to pass out if you didn’t get drugs soon – if cocaine or painkillers didn’t matter.  
    “We aren’t,” you replied through gritted teeth, proud of how steady your voice was, but Jim ignored you. Instead, he caressed Sherlock’s cheek, who violently jerked away. You felt anger explode in your stomach, hot like a spitting volcano, and before thinking about it you grabbed the psychopath’s throat with your right hand and squeezed. His eyes widened but then he calmly pulled out a gun and pointed it at your temple. You instantly let go.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed but his pupils were moving. You wished more than anything that he would say something to Moriarty, outwit him, get you out of here. Suddenly, he looked at you, narrowed his brows and dropped you to the floor without warning.  
    You were so surprised by his action that you didn’t feel the pain at first but when it came, it was excruciating. You screamed when fresh blood oozed out of your fingertips and foot and a sting went through your whole body, causing you to convulse and shake.

You didn’t see exactly what happened next, but you distantly heard Moriarty grunt, then two gunshots, about thirty seconds apart from each other, cracked in your ears. You hadn’t known how loud silence could be until the room turned quiet and you desperately, without success, tried to open your heavy eyelids.  
    “Sherlock?” you mumbled and warily wrapped your left hand into your ragged shirt to stop the bleeding. There was nothing you could do about the pain in your foot or head and before you could call his name again, you had passed out.

* * *

 

When you woke up you had no idea how much time had passed since you’d last closed your eyes. There was a strong smell of old and new blood in the cool, dry air that made you gag. Sherlock was lying on the floor, back turned to you, scarlet pooled around his lifeless body. Desperation crushed your heart like a bear trap and you let out a weak whimper - the only thing you were capable of at the moment.  
    Moriarty was leaning against the opposed wall, eyes open, his grin frozen on his face and a red hole in his forehead. His brains were splattered against the white tiles and morbid joy lit up your face, but just for a second, because you remembered your friend in front of you.

You tried to sit up but your head immediately protested. Crawling it was, then. Trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your whole body you scrambled to the limp body and shook him by his shoulders.  
    “Sherlock, wake up!” Your voice was thin and croaky and you could already feel the tears behind your eyes. “Please! I can’t get you out of here on my own.” But he didn’t even twitch. The only thing indicating the he was still alive was the rapid expanding and contracting of his chest. You turned him onto his back and saw that he was clutching his abdomen where blood was still trickling through his fingers. You cursed under your breath and, still half-crouched on the floor, forcefully removed his hands from the wound to get a closer look at it.

There was a hole ripped through his skin, surprisingly small for being able to do so much damage. Without thinking twice, you pulled your shirt over your head, which took you painfully long, and pressed it on his abdomen. He gasped and his eyes flew open. After darting aimlessly around the room, his gaze fixed on your face and he asked, “Is he dead?”  
    You nodded but it didn’t seem enough for him as he scrambled to his feet, all colour draining from his complexion. “No, you need to lie down!” you yelled and momentarily closed your eyes to stop the room from spinning.  
    “Last time I didn’t check his pulse and I’m not going to make the same mistake again,” he rasped. As soon as he’d done so, he staggered back to you, crouching down while still clutching your shirt.

He offered his arm for you to take but you shook your head – a rather bad decision. “You need to get some rest,” you protested, “I‘m not really bleeding anymore, I’ll get help.”  
    “Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t even stand,” he countered, but you shouted, “You’ll bleed to death! Shut up and stay down, you _idiot_!”

It was obvious how much he hated the idea of you going out there alone with a concussion, not to mention the lack of a toe and fingernails, but his vision wandered to the ceiling and before he could catch himself, he had sunken to the cold ground. He tried to grab your foot when you made a wobbly step towards the door, constantly clutching the table, but his hand slumped from your ankle.  
    “Keep applying pressure,” you said over your shoulder and hard him mumble, “I’m not an idiot,” before he let his eyelids flutter shut.

You tried to look strong, keeping your head up and walking as fast as possible to give him the impression that help was not far, but as soon as you’d closed the door behind you, you sank against the wall, shortened breaths and stomach churning. You saw the thin blood trail that you’d left and tried to swallow the tight know of fear in your throat. This wasn’t going to work. Every step stabbed you with excruciating pain and your head attempted to keep you from moving at all costs. At least there was a rail screwed into the wall which you could support yourself with. So you took one shaky step after another, pulling yourself forward with your hand, wincing with every step.

* * *

 

When John awoke it was to a splitting headache and dried blood on his temple. He flinched when he realized what happened and jumped to his feet, before noticing that he was alone. He distantly remembered a female voice telling him to drop the gun but he couldn’t quite place it.  
    ‘Nevermind,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got more important things to do.’ He pressed the button on the earpiece and asked if anyone was there, but he got no response. Worry welled up inside him. How long had he been out?

Of course he hadn’t been carrying have any other weapons but he still had to go in there – the lives of his friends were at stake. He felt the familiar feeling of adrenalin rushing through his veins and although he hated himself for it - oh he hated himself _so much_ \- he had to admit that he’d missed this. His friends could be dead for all he knew yet these were the days he lived for.

He opened the squeaking door and crept through the hallway, careful as every step made the floorboards creak. He stopped and intently listened from time to time, but there was no sound to be heard. It was hard to concentrate with the throbbing ache that was his head, but he _had to_ , there simply was no other option, and that thought drove him.  
    When he arrived in the main hall he saw Furkan’s lifeless body on the ground in an unnatural position. He hurried to his side, but there was too much blood and he couldn’t make out a pulse. Panic bubbled up in his chest when he discovered a second body – Thomas – behind the counter. Moriarty was here.

He had no idea where to go next U or B, and he couldn’t go the wrong way. If the policemen were dead, he didn’t want to imagine what state (Y/N) and Sherlock were in. But he didn’t have to make a decision. The stairs that lead to U groaned – someone was coming his way. And whoever it was seemed to be injured because the interval between the steps was irregular and long. Deciding that he could take on whoever it was, he hid behind the door and waited for it to open.

After what seemed like hours, the door handle moved and it finally opened. In stumbled a livid, trembling girl. There was blood caked on her foot and hands and arms, standing out prominently against her pale skin. His heart sank and he revealed himself.

“(Y/N),” he breathed in a gruff voice and jumped to your side. You were too out of it to be shocked and let yourself fall against his upper body.  
    “C’mon, sit down, I need to tend to y-“ But you shoved his helping hands away and interrupted him, “Sherlock… needs your help… more.” Every word was agony but you were so glad that help had finally come that you made an attempt to follow him, only for him to shake his head.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back. Take my phone and call the police and an ambulance.” You nodded and weakly pressed the buttons 999 while John hurried down the stairs.  
    “Last room,” you managed to shout after him before there was a professionally calm voice on the other end.

“This is the police; how can we help?”


	9. Another Night At A Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're all safe and sound in hospital... or are they?

The sound of John’s steps echoed loudly on the walls of the stairway, too loud in the silence of the remaining building. He desperately hoped for other noises than his own to reach his ears but the hospital was completely quiet. Not even (Y/N)’s voice on the phone could be heard, not a scream or a groan coming from Sherlock in the last room down the corridor where he was heading. It upset him, and it deeply worried him. So much so that his heart ached with so much stabbing pain that he had to supress a whimper.

When he entered the chilly room, all he could see was red. His stomach turned at all the scarlet that stood out prominently against the white tiles. Moriarty was, clearly dead, sitting with his back against the wall opposed to him, and Sherlock… _oh, Sherlock._

He desperately wanted to be able to close his eyes to the scene in front of him but he knew he had to act. No time for sentiment.  
     Sherlock was lying on the ground, eyes closed shut, hands clenching (Y/N)’s already blood-soaked shirt on his stomach. The liquid oozed out through his slim fingers and stained the ground.

He hurried to his friend’s side and lifted the mere rag to take a look at the wound. The good news was that the bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs and exited on his back, the bad news was that this meant he was bleeding from _two_ holes profusely; it must’ve hit a major artery. He took off his shirt and bound it around the detective’s stomach as an alternative pressure bandage.

When he was fastening the sleeves into a knot, the man shifted and opened his eyes, clouded with pain and confusion.  
    “John?” he slurred and tried to sit up with the help of his weak arms, but immediately slumped back onto the hard floor because he didn’t have enough strength. He cried out in pain.

“I need to get up…”

“No, Sherlock, you need to lie down or you’ll bleed to death!” John’s voice was filled with concern as well as annoyance now that he knew that his friend was fine – or, well, as fine as he could be – which was proven by the fact that he was still able to talk.

“No, I need to find (Y/N), she went out there by herself…”

“She’s alright,” the doctor reassured him with a small smile on his face, “she just called 999. You’re off way worse.”

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like a “Thank you” and closed his eyes.  
    “Stop, you need to stay awake…” John started shaking him by his shoulders, panic that he’d shoved down before now flowing through him like a wave of heat. “Sherlock! Open your eyes!” And, after some hesitation, he added, “That’s an order!”

But Sherlock had never listened to anyone’s orders and he certainly didn’t start now. John forced his eyelids open and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that they were still perfectly responsive. He’d just lost consciousness again. To make sure nothing more happened he kept his thumb on Sherlock’s wrist while pressing down on the bullet hole with the other one.  
    He sat there on the cold, sticky ground in the middle of an abandoned hospital’s room for about five minutes until two women dressed in bright yellow and green wests ran in. They put Sherlock on a stretcher while a policeman asked John what happened, why there were three dead people in this building and why they had been shooting.

“Ask the girl,” he replied tiredly.

“The girl’s unconscious, too, but she’ll be fine. What is your relation to these people?”

John felt the colour draining from his face and thought how very odd it was that the room was spinning before he landed in a paramedic’s arms. “We’ll need one for him, too!” he heard her yell before everything went black and fuzzy.

* * *

 

You woke up to a familiar beeping noise and opened your eyes with a start until you remembered that there were no threats of anyone left to be scared about. Your room was dimly lit by the lights from the street outside. You could faintly hear cars driving by and it reminded you of Baker Street.

_Baker Street._

Your heart stopped for a second when you remembered Sherlock’s bleeding body on the hospital floor and you sat up on your bed. The stabbing pain in your foot had gone down to a light throbbing – whatever they were giving you, it worked miraculously – and each of your fingertips was individually bandaged. Even your head felt normal, considering the circumstances, so you dared get up and open the door to the hallway. it was empty and for a second you feared that you’d never really left your prison, that you were still in that hell…

A nurse walked up to you and asked with a smile, “Miss (Y/L/N), how are you feeling? Ready to walk around already?”

You frowned. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday, the 29th of November,” she replied, “You slept all day since you got here this morning. Didn’t even wake up to us intravenously giving you painkillers! Come on, sit down in your room, I’d rather answer your questions in private.”  
    You stayed where you were and tried to swallow the lump in your throat. “Where’s Sherlock? And John?” Although, John, you assumed, had probably gone home for the night.

“Who?” This hit you like a minivan. “Are they your friends?”

“Yes,” you said, forcing back your tears, “they were with me at the hospital.”

She smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll look them up in the system for you. Just sit down at the table and wait for a wee bit, okay?” You nodded and did as she asked.

The time passed painfully slow. You stared at the big clock on the wall above you that was showing three o’clock, clicking your tongue every time the minute hand moved and tapping the seconds with your right middle finger. You hated waiting.

When she finally came back, she was holding a few sheets of paper and a steaming cup.  
    “I brought you some tea,” she said and handed it to you. “I’ll tell you more now. You were brought here yesterday morning at eleven thirty by an ambulance. The police informed us that you had been held down there for several days,” she paused and squinted at the paper, “DI Lestrade specifically asked us to call you once you were awake. I’ll do that later. Mrs Watson sat by your side for a few hours but then she went back to her husband. That’s the _John_ you asked about, right? He’s been released very quickly, don’t worry about him. I can’t tell you anything more, but I’m sure he will himself.“

You felt a tiny weight being lifted from your shoulders. But the main question still burned on your tongue. “And Sherlock Holmes?”

“He was… shot, I read here? Must be in surgery then. Your friends must be there, too, probably waiting for him to recover.”  
    That sounded about right; even though John and Mary cared for you, Sherlock could be dying so they would want to be with him. “I want to-“ your voice broke and you had to clear you throat before trying again, “Can I go there, too?” To your relief the nurse nodded. “But in the morning, alright?”

“NO!” you exploded. You didn’t intend for your voice to get loud but the thought of a livid, dead Sherlock tore at your heart. “What if he… I want to be able to say goodbye!” The words coming from your lips seemed unreal. Sherlock wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.

She immediately gave in when she saw the despair burning in your eyes and led you towards the lifts.  
    “He’s on the second floor. The waiting room is on the right, but I will be coming to look for you every hour, to take your blood pressure. You’re supposed to be resting, but I understand that this is important for you so I’ll make an exception.” You nodded your thanks and entered the small cabin that had just arrived.

The second floor was a lot busier than the first. Nurses, doctors and surgeons hurried past you, their eyes glued to the files in their hands. Their pagers were always beeping and they looked stressed. You felt very uncomfortable walking through the hallway in your crutch and bandaged hand and the concern for the detective weighed you down so that you were only able to take small, weak steps.

Neither John nor Mary were sitting in the waiting room and your chest tightened with fear and your breath got caught in your throat.

_He’s dead._

You were completely and utterly sure of this fact. Why else would they not be sitting here? Your knees got all wobbly and weak but luckily there were chairs everywhere so you let yourself sink onto one. Clutching your crutch with your hand until its knuckles went snow white you closed your eyes and tried to concentrate.  
    ‘He doesn’t have to be dead. He could be out of surgery. Maybe they went to the restroom, or for a walk, or…’ You felt a hot tear running down your cheek and angrily brushed it away.

A male nurse walked in when he spotted you sitting alone in the room and kneeled down next to you. “Are you okay, Miss? Did you want some tea? Or tissues?” His voice was warm and his offer gentle so you decided to trust him.  
    “Sh-Sherlock H-Holmes?” you hiccupped. His smile widened and he patted your knee. “Are you family?”

When you shook your head and his expression neutralised a little. “I’m so sorry, but in that case I’m not allowed to give you any information.” A sob slipped from your lips and you hated yourself for it, despised the weakness it showed.

“It’s alright, I’ll take it from here.” And in that very moment, you couldn’t have wished for anything more than John’s voice that now echoed through the white waiting room.


	10. Oh Look, They're At A Hospital Again And I've Run Out Of Ideas For Chapter Titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit shorter than usual I guess. I'm so freaking busy, it's insane.

John looked exhausted, evident by the dark bags under his eyes and slight tremor in his left hand that he unsuccessfully hid in his sleeve.  
    “Come on, let’s sit over there,” he suggested and pointed to a seat at the very end of the waiting room next to a coffee dispenser. You nodded shakily and he squeezed your shoulder, just a little, but you felt some of your fear disappear with his kind gesture.

“How is he?” you asked as soon as you’d sat down. John shook his head and you felt your heart drop once again, shattering on the floor like a ceramic vase.  
    “They aren’t giving us any information either. Mycroft hasn’t turned up although I phoned him, and he’s still in surgery…” His face lost even more of its colour and he didn’t even try to hide his left hand now.

“Who’s Mycroft?” you asked with wide eyes. You’d never heard that name before. John’s eyes widened too and he looked at you with disbelief on his face.  
    “That’s… that’s Sherlock’s brother.” – “He never told me about him,” you said and couldn’t help but to feel a bit disappointed. John’s eyes went from glassy to amused. After a short silence of him looking at seemingly nothing, only the hum of the food machines filling the room, he finally told you what was on his mind.  
    “I… uhm, Mycroft works for the British government – or rather, he _is_ the British government. When I first met Sherlock he sent a car to pick me up and drive me to an abandoned warehouse where he offered me money to spy on him.” He chuckled. “He told me he was his arch nemesis. _His arch nemesis_! Well, anyway, I found out the day after that when he said he was worried about him, he actually was.”

You had so many questions about this but you could only ask one. “Then why isn’t he here?”  
    John’s expression darkened. “I don’t know. He wasn’t there when M- when Sherlock got shot either.” The confusion must’ve been obvious on your face because he quickly clarified, “That was a while ago. Someone, uh, shot him. He died. Well, he was brought back, obviously.” He didn’t say anything more after that and the silence was strangely loud. Anger and sadness seemed to seep out of his pores. And there was something else, something in his movements, in his eyes and on his lips…

“Anyway, you should probably go,” he stated before you could figure out what it was, “you need to rest. I promise I’ll keep you updated.”  
    “You also need to rest,” you protested and narrowed your eyes. He smiled a little, feebly. “I will. I’m not missing a toe, though. Do you still remember where the lift was?” You nodded and rose, knowing fully well that any objection would hit a wall.

But you couldn’t sleep. Of course not. Your best friend was being cut open on a table almost like you had been and it made you want to throw up. Reliving the memories of your captivity over and over, you wrapped yourself tightly in your blanket until you resembled a cocoon. Flashes of old feelings popped up in your head, the desperation, the feeling of betrayal, the angry pain that was occupying your every thought in that dark room and, of course, the fear of being helpless.

Your pillow was wet in no time and muffled your scream. Your body had started trembling and your breaths came out short and ragged. Shutting your eyes tightly and tried to imagine yourself back at Baker Street. You could almost feel the dust tickling your nostrils, the muggy air when you breathed in, could almost see the beams of sunlight that fell between the half-drawn curtains when you concentrated hard enough.  
    It helped a bit. Moriarty faded into the background of your mind and Paul was crushed by the smell of 221B. You imagined yourself walking through the living room into the kitchen, opening the fridge. But before you could go any further, the darkness swallowed you whole and you fell asleep.

* * *

 

It was about eight when you woke up to the nurse waltzing into the room carrying a breakfast tray with some bread, butter and jam. She greeted you gleefully and set it down by the bedside table but you barely noticed it.  
    “Can I talk to the other nurse?” you asked, but she shook her head.  
    “That was the nightshift. She’ll be back here tomorrow at eleven thirty.” Disappointed, you turned to your food and frowned. You really weren’t in the mood for breakfast.

“May I visit the second floor?”  
    The young woman tilted her head, seemingly in deep thought, and eventually nodded.” I guess so. But first, I need you to eat, alright? Medicine on an empty stomach isn’t a good idea.” You glared at the small plastic cup with a suspicious look. There were some painkillers and a pill you recognized all too well.  
    “This is a substitute,” the nurse remarked, and she didn’t have to say what for. You both knew and you could both clearly see the shaking of your hands, the beads of sweat on your brow.

_Better than fucking nothing._

She took your blood pressure and pulse, and after making sure you’d at least taken a few bites of the bread she let you go. You hurried towards the lifts and, with now steadier fingers, selected the 2. You had to wait an eternity for the small cabin to arrive and it nearly drove you insane. You felt like every second you weren’t with Sherlock was wasted time, like he could die without you being able to say goodbye, the last memory of you being you leaving him in that bloody, cold room.

But when you stepped into the surgery’s hallway. You were completely alone, apart from a few employees that walked past you with downcast gazes, hardly murmuring something that sounded like _good morning_.  
    Since you had no idea which room Sherlock was lying in you decided to check out the waiting room. Maybe Mary or John would be there.  
    They weren’t. They couldn’t have gone home because John had said that he’d keep you informed, so where were they?

You tried the station office. A distressed looking male nurse opened the door and said in an annoyed voice, “Yes?”  
    “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes.” Maybe he wasn’t supposed to give you any details and maybe he was, but he was obviously too distracted to think about it and just snapped, “Room 211” before shutting the door. With triumphal steps – as well as it was possible with crutches – you practically ran towards the end of the hallway where Sherlock was.

You knocked on the door and, after an answer from the other side, entered. It was a single room, like yours, but there were three chairs placed around the bed. John was sitting in one of them, a backpack on the second, and the third one was empty. Mary was nowhere to be seen.  
    When he realized it was you, the doctor jumped from his chair and hurried to help you but you shrugged his help off and instead hugged him – to his astonishment.  
    “How are you feeling?” His voice was hoarse and his eyes red from unshed tears. It was obvious that he was trying to contain his emotions as well as possible.  
    “Where’s Mary?” you asked instead of answering and breathed in his familiar scent. He sighed. “She left an hour ago. Was betting a bit sick of all this. I can’t blame her, though. I’d love to leave, but…” He didn’t have to finish. With an understating nod you seated yourself in the uncomfortable chair and turned your attention to the livid, tall man in the bed.

Sherlock was buried under a mountain of sheets, his skin seeming whiter that the bed, tubes sticking out of his arm and protruding from his mouth. You hated this sight. He looked so… weak. So dead.  
    “He’s going to be alright,” John’s voice interrupted your dark thoughts and he sat back down. “He has to be. No more internal bleedings, the blood loss is dealt with and there’s no risk of infection if they do everything right. He just has to wake up.” He spoke the last words very softly. You took Sherlock’s hand and were relieved at how warm it felt.  
    “I’m sure, John.” He flashed you a feeble smile. No matter how good his chances of survival were, he didn’t look good lying there and you had to forcefully swallow the knot in your throat.

“How are you?” John repeated his question from earlier.  
    _He isn’t giving up, is he._  
    “I’m fine, don’t worry,” you replied, proud at how true it sounded although your head was killing you and your heart seemed to jump out of your chest with fear. He didn’t believe you for a second. “How much sleep did you catch tonight?” – “About four hours.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’d tell you to go sleep but you wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”  
    “I'd tell you the same thing. Did _you_ sleep?” He smiled. “No. No, I didn’t. well, I guess we’re even.” Then, “I’m glad we found you.”

You nodded but suddenly flinched at a memory you had been suppressing until now. _Molly_. She was still out there.  
    The doctor looked at you with concern and pursed his lips. “Alright, you _need_ to tell me what’s on your mind or it’s going to drive you crazy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! The updates won't be as rapid as normally, sorry :(


	11. The Beast Awakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up and the Reader gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another very short chapter!  
> (Short but crisp. I hope.)

John’s face was completely blank, there was no indication of what he was thinking whatsoever. But he was in deep thought because when Sherlock groaned and moved his head to the other side a bit, he didn’t even turn to look at him.  
    “Molly?” he eventually echoed. You just nodded. This had to be hard for him, being betrayed by one of his closest friends. You resisted the urge of holding his hand – you didn’t want to intrude his personal space.

“I don’t know… I have no idea why she would work for Moriarty; she didn’t…” But he interrupted you, “She was blackmailed. I’m sure of it. She would never do such a thing. Never.”

You shuddered when you remembered her cold eyes and her demanding tone.  
    _What have you done with the bottles? Answer me!_  
    “She wasn’t.” John just responded with a laugh drained of all joy in such a strong matter that you couldn’t hide a frown. He turned back to Sherlock, back straightened and hands clenched into fists. The detective moved again, and this time, you noticed, his eyes had started moving under closed lids. He was waking up.

John pressed the nurse call button and looked at you briefly. His features were plastered with sadness and anger, but the smile on his lips was still genuine.  
    “Sherlock,” he called softly and you immediately felt the need to leave the room, the whole situation seeming very private all of a sudden. You cleared your throat. “I’ll, uh, call Mary,” you suggested. Not waiting for a response, you left the room and took John’s phone with you.

Mary picked up after just two dial tones.

“John?” – “No, it’s me,” you responded and scanned the hallway for unwanted listeners – there weren’t any.  
    “(Y/N)!” she exclaimed. You could hear faint rustling in the background. “How’s Sherlock? How are you?” – “Oh, he’s just waking up. We’ll know more then. I’m fine, don’t worry.”  
    She laughed. “Oh, but I always do. That’s good news, though. Give them my best, will you?” You hesitated. “You’re not coming?” you asked disappointed. She sighed and told you some excuse that sounded made up. You suspected that maybe she didn’t want to bother her husband. Or, perhaps, she also felt the intimacy between the two best friends. But either way, it was weird that she wasn’t with her husband in these difficult times.

“Alright then,” you commented after a short silence where no one really knew what to say, “see you soon, Mary.”  
    “…Yeah.” She sounded unsure and ended the call, leaving you with a frown and a confused look on your face. You mouthed her _Y_ _eah_ , just to see how it felt in your mouth. And it didn’t seem right. Something wasn’t right.

But your mind was quick to jump back to worrying over Sherlock, so you turned on your heels and stepped back into the room to an unusual scene. John was searching through the detective’s belongings while the very same directed him where to look, his hand stretched out and waving about as if he wasn’t lying in a hospital bed right now but standing in front of a manoeuvering lorry.  
    “I put them there myself, I’m absolutely sure of it! If they’ve moved _magically_ it has to have been Mary or…” He turned around and froze. “Oh. Hello.” He blinked a few times but then smiled warmly. “John told me you were talking to Mary.”

“ _What_ are you doing?” you asked and couldn’t help a wide grin. It felt good to laugh at something again.  
    “I am… looking for his cigarettes,” John explained. You snickered. “You are aware that they won’t allow you to smoke in here, right?” you deadpanned and sat back on the chair next to the bed. The detective sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Found them!” His hand holding a pack of B&H was stretched triumphantly into the air. Sherlock tried to snatch it but he pulled away before he could do so. “Oh no, you’ll wait until you can leave the bed like _everyone else_.” Sherlock groaned in response but he didn’t try anything else.  
    He couldn’t – everyone could see how much this little game had tired him out already. His face was livid, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling while he tried to calm the waves of pain in his stomach by breathing slowly and deeply. “I need more morphine,” he said tightly, “Where’s the bloody nurse?”

You waited for at least another minute until the door finally opened and a young man stepped into the room. He was already holding a silver tablet with a syringe and some flasks… Your mind went blank at that sight. You stood up too quickly and the chair screeched backwards, nearly tipping over. John looked at you, concerned, and opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.  
    “Toilet,” you said, and your voice was a bit too high.  
    “(Y/N)…” But you couldn’t hear any more than that because you had fled the room in desperate search for the restrooms. You hated the feeling of incoming panic attacks; the tightening in your chest, the shortening of your breaths and the quickening of your heartbeat – it all blurred into one terrible haze of fear.

You stumbled into the narrow cabin that was the Ladies and shut the door with a bang. If someone had followed you, you didn’t hear it, but it wasn’t as if it mattered. You splashed some cold water in your face and crooned the lyrics of _Oh What a Night_ to calm yourself. Miraculously, it worked. The pain of your foot took over – you had forgotten to take your crutches with you – and by the time you were at _Sweet surrender, what a night_ , the tray, the scalpel and James’ laughter had ceased to fill up your senses.

Someone knocked at the door with gentle determination. “Could you come back out? Please? You’re worrying me.” John sounded a bit alarmed so you decided to calm him by doing as he asked.  
    “I’m fine,” you uttered and tried to get past him but his grip was like iron. _Like a soldier’s._  
    “You are _now_ ; I can see that. But what happened before?” – “Nothing, I was just… distracted, I guess. Something reminded me of the room.” There was no need to elaborate. You both knew exactly what you were talking about.

“Sherlock’s told me it had been happening less often before you went into the clinic,” he said, patting your arm. “You know recovery is well possible, don’t you?” You nodded. “You’re handling it very well, (Y/N). I’m proud of you.”  
    You turned away before he could see how choked up you were. No one had ever told you that before. There had been a lot of hitting, cussing and hate speech from your parents, and sometimes an eventual “We still love you, darling”, “That was the last time, we swear”. But _proud_ , no, that never seemed like something they had been capable of feeling.

“Let’s go back, alright?” the doctor suggested and rubbed your back a bit. Maybe he needed a bit of comforting too, he looked downright miserable, but you couldn’t bring yourself to return the favour. You just wanted no one to touch you at the moment.  
    Stepping back into the bleak hospital room you tried not to look at anything but the bed that Sherlock was resting in. His eyes were closed but he smiled when he heard you come in. “You okay?” he asked and looked at you through nearly-shut lids.  
“Yeah,” you replied briefly. “I need to go back up now, but I’ll come back tomorrow, yeah? So you won’t get bored.” – “I think you were talking about yourself in that last bit. I don’t get bored. Ever.”

John sighed but he was smiling. “Tell that Mrs Hudson’s wall…”  
    You hobbled back to the lift, constantly checking if someone was following you. It was a nervousness couldn’t be eased with drugs (medical or cocaine) for it had become almost like an instinct. But luckily, the hallway was still nearly empty – the people that were there were busy. ‘You’re being stupid,’ you scolded yourself, ‘You’re not in danger anymore. Molly has probably fled the continent.’

But that wasn’t the case. You felt that with every cell of your body when you opened the door to your room and she was standing in the middle of it, gun cocked and expression ice cold.


	12. Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know that this is not how things actually go down in a case of emergency, but it fitted the storyline :)

Time slowed down to a weird blur when you turned around and shut the door,your movements like that of a machine. A bullet whistled past your ear and another grazed your thigh. You saw the blood, but you didn’t feel any pain. Your surroundings felt like cotton and you realized that the gun’s loud noise had temporarily rendered you deaf.

Your crutches fell to the floor when you ran towards the lifts – which didn’t work because someone had triggered the amok alarm. The fire doors fell shut and all the rooms locked automatically. For a wonderful, naive moment you thought you were safe. Back pressed against the wall and gaze piercing your room door, you wondered how your body still had adrenaline left.

And then you realized that you couldn’t stay here. It was only a matter of time until Molly would shoot the lock. You needed to get as far away as possible. Luckily, the fire doors weren’t locked, so you could easily slip through between them and huddle towards the stairs. _The stairs._ With your body still malnourished, the pain slowly returning like an iron clamp on your foot and blood suddenly seeping through the bandages on your fingers, you didn’t feel like you were in a well enough state to descend anything right now, but you had no choice.

You could faintly hear another shot and took two steps instead of one, feet pounding on the stone floor like hammers, pain screaming from your every cell and, suddenly, an almost angry scream was ripped from the depths of your soul. Not again. Not _again_. When was this going to be over? Hadn’t you suffered enough!?

Your hearing was slowly coming back when you reached the floor that Sherlock and John were on. Everything was in absolute chaos; the alarm was still shrilling, there were red-blue lights flashing on the walls from outside the windows, and people’s muffled cries could be heard through closed doors.

Panic churned your stomach and you felt bile in your throat.  
    _No, you can’t stop right now, save it for later, keep going, keep going, keep going…_  
    Pushing the fear down and down, you kept running down the hall, not daring to look back because Molly could be standing there with the weapon in her hand.

When you arrived at Sherlock’s bedroom door, you remembered the lockdown and your heart seemed to stop for a moment. All the rooms were locked. You had nowhere to go. Everyone was inside and you were exposed in that hallway, the throbbing of your heart so fast that you swore it could’ve been one long, buzzing sound. You had to open a lot of fire doors to get here, and when you closed them, you had put something in front of them to make it harder for Molly to get through, but it wasn't enough.

You heard a door at the other end of the ward fall shut. That was when you were finally able to move your body again. You weren’t ready to take the risk that the person entering could be police. You stumbled backwards, now leaving a thin trail of blood on the ground, until your back was against the wall, and frantically pounded on the door next to you. Silent rustling and someone moving could be heard through the wood, but no one said anything or opened the door.

“It’s me,” you said, not too loud but your voice high with anxiety. “Please, open up!”  
    Someone, most likely John, pressed down the handle and pushed and pulled, but it didn’t budge. “I don’t have a key!” he called back, worried.  
    “We don’t have time for a key!” you cried as you heard the second door fall shut. There were still four doors between you and a possible killer, but you felt your vision get blurry. You were in no condition to escape now.

“I’m going to faint,” you mumbled, probably too quiet for anyone to pick up, and as that became clear to you, your breathing now started to become shallow, which didn’t help at all. John threw himself against the door, but you could hear Sherlock telling him off.

“Keep the door locked,” you whispered in a silent prayer, “keep it locked and keep her out.”

And then, your vision went black. You could still hear one more door fall shut before you fell into a deep, dark pit.

* * *

 

Sherlock would’ve been up and running if it hadn’t been for the stabbing pain in his stomach. He shouted at John to _Get a gun_ , to _Force the door open somehow, I don’t care how_ , but there was no weapon anywhere, and the locks on the doors weren’t about to be opened by a pin or a needle. John threw himself against the door and winced at the solid wood on his shoulder.

“Stop it; I’m sorry, just… stop it,” Sherlock commanded and tried to sit up.  
    “Stay down!” John shouted. “You’ve got a hole through your intestines, you _will_ stay in bed!” Sherlock didn’t want to oblige, he wanted to get up, find a solution, _think_ , but his mind didn’t work and his limbs wouldn’t respond to the orders of his clouded brain. “You need to get her out…” he whispered almost incoherently, eyelids weighing tons.

John’s movements were getting more and more frantic and, as a result, uncoordinated, frightened, in a matter that Sherlock had not seen many times on him before. “Run to the nurse’s station down the hall!” John shouted.

The only response was dead silence. John’s face went pale and he drew back from the door without even noticing it. “(Y/N)?”  
    Another door fell shut. “(Y/N)!” he called, louder this time. Sherlock shushed him, as much as it pained him to do so. Whatever was happening out there, giving away their position wouldn’t help in any way. John turned around, desperately throwing his hands into the air.  
    “Then what am I supposed to do?” he whispered loudly and took a step towards the detective. “You, with all your good ideas, tell me, _what can we do_?”

But he got no response. Sherlock had closed his eyes, heavily thinking, fingers twitching in concentration. John huffed and turned back to the door, further examining the lock. It was a modern, practically unbreakable thing. But he could force it open with something extremely heavy. Like, for example, a bed. He raised his head and looked at the one Sherlock was lying in. There wasn’t much space in the room, but enough to turn it and drive it against the door with full force.

Sherlock, now with open eyes, seemed to have had the same thought. “No! We’ll hurt her like that,” he said, but the argument sounded weak. The gunner wouldn’t hesitate to. So John released the breaks of the bed with a kick, swung the massive thing around and, with Sherlock’s cry of pain in the background, pushed it against the wood with all his strength.

* * *

 

_Crack._

Your eyes flew open. A lot was happening around you, so much in fact that you wished for nothing more than to be unconscious again. You couldn’t have been out for more than two minutes but in that short amount of time, the whole hallway seemed to have been turned upside down.  
    You were pressed against the wall by a _bed_ , John was kneeling next to you, trying to push it back into the room to free you. Sherlock was standing at - or rather, leaning against - the fire door, tying his shirt around the two door handles to gain some time, beads of sweat running down his temples and neck, face pale as a sheet. They hadn’t noticed yet that you were awake, so when you spoke, they both jumped.

“That won’t stop her.”

They interrupted what they were doing and turned to you. John, with one last grunt of effort, pushed the bed away from you and pulled you out, while Sherlock, having finished his task, sank to the floor, breathing heavily.

“You should’ve kept the door-“ But you weren’t able to finish. Every breath felt like a knife in your chest and you closed your eyes, hoping it would help bearing the pain.

“Two fractured ribs,” John mumbled, his gentle fingers a mere brush on your tormented thorax. “I hate to ask this of you, but can you stand?”  
    You nodded, although you felt like you could never walk again. But eventually, you did. The doctor helped you get on your feet and from there it was just a don’t-pass-out-just-yet-game. He couldn’t help you because he had to support Sherlock who was nearly out cold.

“What now?” you asked, because you had no means of defending yourself, Molly was trying to open the doors and both you and Sherlock were unable to be of any use in the upcoming fight.  
    “I’ll figure something out,” John pressed between gritted teeth, the tall, curly-haired man hanging from his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. You hobbled to his side. At least your foot had stopped bleeding – it still hurt like hell though. Your fingertips weren’t sore anymore (at least not compared to every other fibre of your body), but breathing was still hard and even standing on the spot was a challenge.

So there you were – three dismal figures, trying to remain upright, eyes clouded with pain, resignation and fear, while the shirt slowly started to rip. But this wasn’t so bad after all. At least you wouldn’t die alone.

And then, something truly unexpected happened. There were a lot of voices and footsteps and two precisely calculated shots. Then someone shouted, “Open up! Police!” and just as they managed break through, your legs gave.

* * *

 

Two months later.

You were sitting in the living room of 221B, sipping a cup of tea and burning your tongue in the process. A curse on your lips, you rose and sprinted to the sink to drink some cold water. Sherlock was standing at the kitchen table, goggles over his eyes, burning _something_.

“Please, just… can I open the windows?” you begged and supressed a gag after you’d cooled your tongue down and had to concentrate on the foul smell again.

“No! The flame will go out from the wind,” the man mumbled and dropped some weird green drops onto the roasted thing that, upon closer inspection, you now suspected to be a ball of hair. Nothing happened and he sighed.  
    “Alright, I’m done.”

You let some fresh air in and dramatically leaned out of the window. “That was awful!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“That may be the case, but it was a necessary awful. A woman’s life depended on it.”

“Yes, alright, whatever.”

He indicated a smile and stepped next to you. “How are you, (Y/N)?”  
    You swallowed. “Fine,” you replied, although you had both heard your screams that night. Sherlock nodded. “Good. The nightmares will pass, believe me. At least you’re not on cold turkey anymore.”

He was right, you had to admit. You had gotten better. Flashbacks came less frequent. John was here often, even more than at his own home you would’ve guessed, and he tried his best to give you advice on the matter. He'd tried to convince you to go to his therapist a few times, but soon given up after you'd started to ignore him whenever he dared to bring it up. Trusting was still hard for you. He understood. He didn’t push. And yet, somehow, he still helped. It seemed inexplicable.

“You can… talk to me, you know,” Sherlock had once offered, but he hadn't really seemed comfortable with it. He liked listening to you and John talking about it, and sometimes interrupting you by shouting his crap from the kitchen or the bedroom, and he held you at night, and he kept you in the flat when the cravings were getting unbearable. And you were happy. So yes, eventually, it was all fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was quite a ride. For everyone who read till the end, **thank you so much!!!** I loved writing it, I adored all your lovely comments and I'm incredibly happy.


End file.
